Curtains
by NatashaRostof
Summary: She only wishes to block out the light.


_Disclaimer: _The names of the characters, the setting, the entire Moulin Rouge story belongs to a brilliant genius named Baz Luhrmann, (and a bunch of other people, companies, etc. I'm sure…). 

_Author's note:  _Indeed, as soon as I think an obsession has left me….  I give my thanks to Cinna's beautiful, inspiring stories.  :o)  Here you have my second ever short fanfic story.  I'm kind of counting on the reader to buy into my metaphors here, so please stay open to that.  Also, I tried what I think is an original alternative twist to a relatively common ending, though for all I know it may have been done a thousand times before.  But enough preamble.  Enjoy.

**Curtains**

Satine found herself lounging in the elephant, sun streaming onto her through the large, open window.  She would have to remember to fix that.

She rose lethargically from the bed and stretched, wondering first why she was there when it was obviously mid-afternoon, and secondly why she suddenly felt so weak and fragile.  Her back ached something awful, and her throat felt as though it had been left out to rust for weeks on end.

_Consumption_, said a voice inside her head.  But the word was awkward, and meant little to her.  She'd heard of girls contracting the disease before, but all that ever came of it was rumors, until the girl slept six feet under and they all looked the other way.

Indeed, the word meant little.

Satine stood, with a thought of pulling the curtains.  Then she noticed that on the refreshment cart, there sat a glass half full with a fizzing beverage.  Desperate to sooth the burning in her throat, she took the glass and downed the drink in one motion.

But the drink only served to irritate it further, and Satine was thrown into fits of coughing, rattling through her frame more severely than she could ever remember experiencing before.  She dropped the glass on the table and stumbled backwards, finally kneeling to lay her head on the bed.

Only when her gasping and dizziness subsided did she look back at the glass, bewildered by her body's reaction to it.  But what she saw was enough to make her squint and creep nearer.  Despite the sun and time of day, one piece of ice sat at the bottom of the glass.  It had undoubtedly been shaken about some time before, as it was chipped to the point that its cubed shape was barely distinguishable.  And yet it remained frozen solid, without the faintest glimmer of condensation on its surface.  Already at this, Satine marveled.

When she looked more closely still – she once more lifted the glass, this time to peer inside – she noticed something further: a drop of blood that must have escaped her chapped lips had melted a tiny path to the cube's center, and was now kept there in its frozen prison, a crimson taint in the ice, which itself was slightly discolored from the liquids it had soaked in.

Then the room began to spin again, and she laid back down on the bed, desperately wishing for sleep.  She wanted relief from these strange symptoms, and from the lopsided rotation the earth seemed to have taken to.

But sleep wouldn't come.  It was that horrid sunlight.  Satine stood once more, mind set on shutting it out.  However, as she strode towards the window, she happened to glance over in the direction of the mirror.  Again, she found herself staring, but this time at her own reflection.  Her skin was a pasty white, her eyes swollen, her hair snarled and her cheeks spotted with ill-looking color.  Frightened, Satine reached instantly for a powder brush.

No sooner had the bristles caressed her face, then the dust flew into her mouth and she was reduced to trembling and wheezing, similarly to before.

This time, she saw it all too clearly.

A drop of blood flew from her lips, squarely at the center of the mirror.  There, it burned its way through, and then spread like wildfire in a hundred directions, searing along the glass chaotically and leaving jagged, razor-sharp edges until it finally shattered – a ringing burst, an almost musical sound – and then fell to the ground in pieces.

That which had moments before been an opulent, glorified mirror, rimmed with gold and set with precious stones, was now reduced to mere shards of reflective glass, lying among glittering bits of synthetic jewels, and with edges smeared with lustrous paint.  These fragments were now only enough to reflect a broken image here and there – since this mirror only gained its worth through those it reflected, it now held little value.

Satine let the fragments be, and composed herself to shut out the light, once and for all.

But sitting in front of the curtain was a narrow vase, holding a single, red rose, petals wrapped together tightly.  Satine smiled, and fondly touched one.

With a faint rustling sound, the entire flower began to unfold, exposing its silky depths, its beauty.  She gently cupped it in her hands and leaned in to smell it.

But as she did so, a thorn pricked her finger, and she dropped the rose in anguish.  A tiny drop of her own blood remained on the thorn, and all around it the rose's stem shriveled, until it broke feebly in two.  Each petal's color drained, and the fell weakly off.  Soon all that remained in the vase was a pile of brittle kindling.

She emptied them into her hand, and threw them out the window.

Fuelled by this riddance, she vehemently yanked the thick, heavy curtain over the opening, blocking every last merry ray of light that had danced about the room moments before.

Now, there was no blood-stained ice, no shattered mirror, no empty vase.  Only darkness.

Blessed darkness.

As she fell limply to the shadowed ground, she knew that it was eternal darkness.

Freedom.

~

Satine awoke to the sun shining brightly across her face.  Dazed, she opened her eyes, and squinting in the light, she looked around the room.

Everything was intact – the Duke's drink, forgotten in the midst of the previous night; Harold's mirror; Christian's flower.  No curtains even graced the open window's gold-laced frame.  There was no blood crusting her throat, no prick on her finger.

And through her moist lips, she gave a disappointed sigh.


End file.
